


November Seventeenth

by thevoidiscalling



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Gen, no proofreading we just die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28395597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevoidiscalling/pseuds/thevoidiscalling
Summary: This fic is based on Kanaya's song, November Sixteenth, which is one of my favourite songs right now and you should definitely listen to it while reading. This is set on November Seventeenth, the day after the war, and Phil is grieving.
Kudos: 5





	November Seventeenth

Phil could see the stars. They shone through the cracks in the gaping hole the tnt had left in the wall. If he squinted, he could make out faces in the patterns—Wilbur, Tommy, Techno: but then he blinked, and they were just stars once more.

He began to hum, his cracked voice echoing out into the empty crater. L’manberg was empty, this late at night. Phil was left to face his guilt alone.  
There was a book in his lap that he had almost forgotten was there. Wilbur had given it to him the night before the war.

He had stood in the doorway hesitantly, as if he wasn’t sure whether he wasn’t meant to be there, but he had also seemed excited. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet.  
“I wanted to give you something,” he said quickly. He had both hands behind his back, holding something that Phil could just see the corners of. The light from the hallway behind him illuminated his silhouette. His trenchcoat was off, and he was in his worn yellow jumper, soft with age. He looked tired, and Phil had to fight the urge to rustle his hair and send him to bed. Instead, Phil sat up and nodded, beckoning Wilbur to come forwards and show him. Wilbur obliged, seeming to brighten up a little. He perched himself on the edge of the bed and brought the object out from behind him.

“A book?” Phil asked, taking it. It was embossed, the word “L’manberg” spelled in bright gold against the brown leather. Underneath was a clearly hand-drawn L’manberg flag. Phil looked back up at Wilbur, who nodded excitedly.  
“A scrapbook! Tommy, Tubbo, and I made it together.”

Phil was torn from the memory by a sudden rush of overwhelming guilt. A voice screamed somewhere in his head “YOU KILLED HIM. HE IS DEAD AND IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT.”  
Every happy memory now was tainted by that obnoxious voice, but try as he might, Phil couldn’t drown it out. He could try to distract himself, he thought, looking down at the book. He hadn’t opened it since that night  
Turning the book over in his hands, running his thumb over the indentations the lettering made in the cover, Phil sighed deeply. A tune made its way from his throat, soft and low. “Let me tell you a story,” he sang, melancholy dripping from every note, “of November 16th.”  
He opened the book to a large picture of Technoblade, his left arm around Wilbur’s shoulders and his right flipping off an almost-out-of-frame Tommy.   
“The day my son destroyed all of their dreams, with his head up high, shot a firework to the sky.” The crossbow hanging from Techno’s left arm was loaded with a firework, and Phil winced. Memories played behind his eyes of the explosions of the festival, and he quickly turned the page.

The next was a simple collage of Techno and his potato farm in Pogtopia. Phil smiled fondly for a second, but his heart was soon torn. “They say time heals, so why do I feel so alone?” The question echoed, and Phil pulled his jacket closer to him. It was cold out here, but it was better than the stifling Pogtopia, filled with people asking him if he was alright. “They say time heals, it feels as though hope is all gone.” 

After that was a photo of Tommy and Tubbo on their bench. “And in the end, you should know, they held hands and bitterly smiled to the sun.” In the picture, they wore bitter smiles indeed; they were taut and stressed about the war yet to come. Phil could compare those to the grimaces they wore now. “The symphony that my son sung will remain unfinished,” Phil sang, his eyes turning to the page opposite, where Wilbur held a guitar and played to an audience of Quackity and Niki, both clapping and grinning. He brushed a finger over Wilbur. “With a chapter not yet closed.”

“Let me tell you a story of November 16th.” Tommy filled the next page, pushing Fundy out of frame. Phil remembered that moment: Tommy insisting he was the best and deserved to be in every picture ever, Fundy attempting to push him away so he could get back to taking selfies, and then Fundy yelping as he was shoved to the ground. The result made all three of them laugh—Tommy was blurry and yelling in victory, and Fundy’s ear and part of his face could just be made out at the edge of the photo. “The day my son lost all of his dreams.” Phil shut his eyes. He never saw smiles like that anymore. “But despite all that, you’re still a hero to me.”

Phil continued the song, and only stuttered when he reached the final verse. “Let me tell you a story of November 16th.” His voice cracked on the “16th”, and he took a moment to clear his throat and rub away a tear before continuing. The scrapbook page before him was a collage of Wilbur—in a beanie; in his trenchcoat; peeking out from a doorway at the camera; nestled among bookshelves studying a particularly hefty novel. “The day my son let go all of his dreams.” The tears were streaming down Phil’s face now, and he turned to the last page to find a picture that he recognised of Tubbo, Fundy, Tommy, Wilbur, Niki, and Eret. However, each person had scribbled-on features in sketchy biro. Tubbo had bees buzzing around him and a speech bubble proclaiming “BEES!”. Fundy had ears and whiskers. Behind Tommy were some scribbled cobblestone towers. Wilbur had a guitar and a beanie added to him. Niki was holding a cake. Eret, however, was furiously scribbled out, and the biro marks were deep enough to have cut into the paper and left holes. The only identifying mark was a crown above where his head would have been, with “TRAITOR” scrawled into it.  
“As he said to me, it was never meant to be.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was written at 4am and very briefly skim-proofread the next night for any glaring mistakes, so i apologise if there are any. Please comment or leave kudos to motivate me to write more things lmaoo


End file.
